"What do you want for breakfast, an omelette, an Egg McMuffin or a smoothie?"
This is a question I ask Scott every morning.
These are the choices.
There are no other choices.
Lately, the question has been met with stone cold silence.
By the time he answers it, it's 11 a.m. and I could eat pug stew.
Scott is not a breakfast eater, but I have to be. I'm following Chris Powell's eating and exercise regime which means I have to eat breakfast within 30 minutes of getting up. I have to have it before I go to the gym or walk the dogs.
Scott is like a camel.
I have to give him credit, though.
At first, he was giggy with the routine.
He ate breakfast without complaint until he could not face another egg.
"I can't eat breakfast when I get up," he moaned. "We're different."
Wiser words were ever said.
Men and women cannot lose weight together. It is an impossibility.
They eat the blue plate special. We get cottage cheese and a peach slice.
They go to the gym three times a week. We rise at the crack of dawn and pound the machines until their gears break.
They toss back six packs like there's no tomorrow. We drink over-priced Skinny Girl margaritas.
Men live large and we try to live it smaller.
Men do what men do and they still lose more weight than we do.
We're still paying for talking to the damned snake in the Garden of Eden.
Recently, I decided it's time to go it on my own and accept the reality that is called my marriage.
I eat my damned Egg McMuffins while Scott slathers his French toast with maple syrup.
I get up and go to the gym while he slumbers.
And somewhere in the middle we meet for a dinner compromise.
We both are on a path towards healthy living, but we are doing it differently.
And so, the inches are slowly coming off both of us.
Men and women can't be diet buddies. I realize that now.
We are two solitudes.
One is a fridge. The other is a small appliance.
Both use different amounts of electricity and get the job done just the same.
Blinding glimpse of the obvious.
It only took me ten years to figure it out.